


What Clouds Do

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Mission Fic, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney’s not sure if that’s just laziness or some manifestation of emotion that <i>becomes</i> laziness, and doesn’t care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Clouds Do

She’s beautiful.

Rodney watches because he can’t tear his eyes away. There’s something compelling—magnetizing—hypnotic the way John is utterly relaxed, standing at that weird cockeyed angle he prefers with an arm around her shoulders. She’s petite, and looks smaller next to John, but she also looks _right_ tucked up against him, laughing at whatever he’s saying now.

He wishes he was jealous. Jealousy he knows how to handle after too many missions of women—girls, the occasional non-human humanoid—trying to get where this one is. Jealousy means he gets to stump and glare and generally act pissed off until John finally _notices_ and either gives him a sheepish grin, chasing his newest pursuer away, or starts playing with her just to make Rodney that much more annoyed.

So he’ll fuck John that much harder.

Jealousy is easy because when it comes right down to it, Rodney has nothing to be jealous _of_. John doesn’t look for it. Even when John wants it, when there's a hint of attraction like unexpected sparks from a short, he doesn't really want it. Not really, not enough. Rodney’s not sure if that’s just laziness or some manifestation of emotion that _becomes_ laziness, and doesn’t care. The equation itself is irrelevant as compared to the answer, and the answer is unchanging. John is his. John doesn’t let his eyes wander, doesn’t lean too close to the pretties that cuddle up next to him. John doesn’t even watch appreciatively, the way Rodney often does, when it’s a different kind of pretty who’s taking their turn.

John is _his_.

But not this way.

“You are—no,” the girl squeals, slapping playfully at John’s chest as his grin turns wicked, those loose, startlingly gentle hands turning just hard enough to tease, pushing her until her skirts flare like sunspots around her ankles. She’s laughing, clinging breathlessly to his arm. “Colonel, stop it, I’ll fall!”

His face is open, highlighted with the kind of simple joys that Rodney rarely ever sees.

Envy burns brighter than emerald fire.

“You think I’d let you fall?” John drawls, executing a quick move that has her tucked back under his arm, red-faced and gasping and utterly secure. “You think I’d do that?”

In anyone else, her soft expression would be hero-worship. Rodney has to turn away, and can only hear as she says, “No, Colonel. I trust you to save me.”

He tells Teyla that he’s not feeling well and he’s going to retire early for the night. She is concerned—she reads currents Rodney usually doggy-paddles through, wondering why he's suddenly near to drowning—but Torren is an eager eater and she’s distracted.

“Rodney—”

There’s no shame in a woman suckling her child. Intellectually, Rodney knows this. It helps that it’s _Teyla_ , who is impervious to anything resembling shame or its synonyms. But he’ll never be comfortable with the way she simply opens her shirt and offers up a mid-afternoon snack. Trying not to grimace he waves her words away. “I’m just tired, okay? Really.”

He has reason to be, after all.

“Very well,” she sighs. “May your rest be refreshing.”

“Yes, yes,” he says, and ties very hard not to listen to John laughing, off near the horizon.

* * *

“You okay?” John is a California boy. Regardless of where his actual birthplace was, John comes alive in golden sunlight, turns hungry at the sound of waves crashing tauntingly to shore, and wants nothing more than to lounge about in soft white shirts, flip-flops, and a pair of shorts so worn they’ve got to be indecent.

Rodney’s seen this outfit before. Once. It’s left impressions.

Next to that, it’s hard not to feel like a rock shuttered in constant darkness, like school all over again. “Yes, of course. I’m just tired.”

John narrows his eyes critically. “Well, you look better,” he judges slowly, “although your nose is burning.”

“This is me valiantly _not_ saying I told you so.”

John gives him a half-smile. “More like bitterly. I’m sorry I forgot your bag, okay?”

Rodney’s prevented from resuscitating the argument by a long arm curling around him, drawing him close so John can kiss just where the sunburn is most sensitive. It doesn’t hurt, precisely, but it doesn’t exactly feel good, either. “Muh,” he grumbles.

John kisses him again, soft-lipped with the barest hint of tongue, and that _does_ feel good. His nose is hot and starting to itch. “Sorry. Really.”

“I know.”

Sun or unfamiliar relaxation, whatever it is has them standing comfortably for much longer than Rodney’s used to. John isn’t doing anything, not even that deceptive stillness that tells other soldiers he’s relaxing and tells _Rodney_ that his mind is racing under a thick curtain of control. There’s nothing hidden or ulterior about this. He’s just standing, _hugging_ , arms wound loose and comfortable around Rodney with his cheek resting on Rodney’s head.

The head Rodney has on his shoulder.

He closes his eyes and firmly tells himself not to think about it.

“You know you don’t have to be jealous, right?” John, unfortunately, is only vaguely telepathic about Atlantis, not Rodney’s ego.

Rodney wants to move, but this feels _good_ , the perfect cap to what should’ve been a perfectly comfortable day. “I’m not jealous.”

John makes a weird noise that breaks in the middle. “You’re telling the truth,” he says, slow and thoughtful.

“Why would I lie?”

“You don’t, usually, about this.” John nods, his hair crinkling roughly against Rodney’s pate. It feels startlingly good, better even than the line of warmth that breathes with him. “That’s why I wasn’t sure. If you were jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“Because you know there’s nothing to be jealous of,” John continues. Once, long ago, someone had made the observation that John doesn’t babble. Oh, how wrong that assessment is. It’s just he doesn’t _usually_ babble, in _public_ , two key caveats Rodney’s learned through much experience. “She’s practically a kid—”

“She’s nearly thirty!”

“—more like twenty, McKay, and anyway, it’s not like that. I just like her.”

He does. And _that’s_ the problem. Once again, Rodney wishes he was just jealous. It’s a surprisingly uncomplicated emotion. “She’s also incredibly gay,” Rodney adds what he know John won’t, “with a partner who was watching the entire time with an indulgent expression.” A thought occurs to him. “Oh, god, I didn’t look _indulgent_ did I? Being here is doing terrible things to my poker face.”

“No, you didn’t look indulgent, and you don’t _have_ a poker face.” A beat, two three. “I didn’t know she was gay.”

Rodney snorts, using the sound to finally extricate himself. He’s suddenly uncomfortable with John so close and doesn’t want to know the reason why. Busying himself with mundane chores before bed, despite it being barely early evening, he says, “So you thought Arina was...?”

“Um. Her mother?”

Rodney can’t help but laugh. “Never join a carnival. You suck at guessing women’s ages.”

“Well, with the way she was looking... ” John grins back, goofy with relief that Rodney’s doing things that don’t indicate _mad, really really mad_. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t. Because you did know, John. That’s why you were—” _comfortable, playful, so relaxed you were practically boneless_ “—throwing her around like that.”

All the benefits of playing with a child, without the problems of authority. Mala is a woman grown, sure of herself and in complete control as _Alen_ of this village. She has nothing to fear, and nothing to want from John except his companionship. Connection as innocent as a summer's blue-hued day.

Sometimes, Rodney’s still not sure if John’s completely a-sexual. For all he flirts the way most people breathe, there’s such a lack of intent behind it, all smoke and mirrored illusions that vanish the moment they’re touched. There’s no—no _depth_ to John.

Not in public, anyway. Not about this.

Rodney focuses on unknotting his boots. He may be on a safe planet—safe as can be, anyway—under orders to relax, heal up, get some rest, it's just a vacation, Doctor, for at least a few more days, but he still triple-knots his boots every morning.

“Rodney.”

He sighs. The laces tug painfully against his skin, leaving pink-fuzzy impressions. “Can’t I just be moody? Normally you bitch that I have to be dramatic about everything.”

John sits next to him on the bed, radiating warmth he’s spent an afternoon soaking up. He trails his fingers along Rodney’s side, something normally guaranteed to change a conversation’s direction. When it doesn’t work, John just does it again and again, a gesture that's almost ocd in its trust that eventually, it'll work and Rodney will be okay again. “You’re mad at me.”

“No. No, actually I’m not. Don’t look at me that way, am I usually someone who lies to you about what I feel? I’m not mad.”

“You’re not happy.”

Rodney bites back the retort he wants to fling. It’s wrong, patently so, and he doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to _be_ angry.

John’s face is so expressive, free of the masks left by the door that shuts nearly air-tight behind them. Now it’s creased, bumps and dips in familiar skin that make him look like a child, for all he’s lined with age. “You are jealous.”

“No. I’m not jealous.”

“Right. You’re not angry, and you’re not jealous, but you’re _something_. Rodney... ”

Abruptly defeated, Rodney buries his face in his palms. It’s always like this, with John. “You called her ‘sweetheart’.”

He isn’t looking, but Rodney can _feel_ John’s startled blink. “I did? Uh. You’re sure she’s gay, because—”

Straw meet back. It’s got two humps.

“I don’t want to be mad at you!” he spits, powering to his feet because he’s the ultimate kinetic, and thinking—constant, unending thinking—means movement. “I am trying very, very hard _not_ to be mad at you, since it’s not your fault, and hey, imagine me being the bigger man, for once, and actively trying to get over this before it bothers you, but no. The one time I’m self-sacrificing you pick and you prod and yes, now I _am_ angry because this is stupid. I hate it when I’m stupid.”

The last sentence comes out plaintively, a childish whine that Rodney despises. John does, too, normally, but he’s still there, still matching his steps to Rodney’s pacing so he can execute a neat little turn that has Rodney tucked up under his arm, gently stilling them so Rodney can huff and grumble into John’s shoulder, securely held by a man who never wants to know, never wants to care.

Except when he does.

John’s nose is broken, a school-yard fight from years ago, and the knot in the bone presses against Rodney’s cheek. He’s sweaty, he realizes dimly. But John’s still holding him, breathing out something low and—and god, he’s _crooning_ to Rodney, exactly the way he does when Torren needs to be soothed into sleep, a kind of subconscious humming that has Rodney going heavy and pliant against his will.

“You are not allowed near Torren anymore,” he grumps, but he doesn’t mean it. If John’s a California boy, then Torren is his new Sol.

“Do you want me to call you sweetheart?”

Damn John for not being as stupid as Rodney claims. “No,” he says. It’s not even a lie.

John’s hands are moving more purposefully now, little circles that experience says will help calm both of them down: along Rodney’s back and over his shoulder before those familiar hands, rough and delicate and gentle for all they’re callused with a soldier’s life, cup Rodney’s cheeks, holding him out just enough that John can watch him, thumbs describing circles over his cheeks and temples.

The kiss shouldn’t be unexpected, but it is, heavy with a lush sweetness, the kind that conceals messages Rodney can only partially decode, gems of knowledge that occur to him much later.

“You want me to call you baby,” John murmurs, so close that his eyes are one elongated ellipse of green and brown and gold, all flecked with something Rodney can’t identify with a descriptor as prosaic as color. “You want me to say _c’mere, baby_ when we’re out in public, my arm around your waist, or yours around mine, so everybody can see. You want me to say, _babe, you want something to drink_ when Mala escorts us to those luau-things.” Closer still and Rodney can’t see anything at all, eyes fluttering shut under the seductive whisper of John’s broken voice. “You want me to call you _sweetheart_ , Rodney. You want me to say _honey_ and have everybody know that it means you.”

“No,” he lies. “No, I don’t.”

It’s not the names themselves, is the thing. Those Rodney can do without, is happy to go on without forever. Except for John, those words come with a playful innocence, that ability that’s so purely John’s to just _relax_ , to be the kid he suspects John never was, just like he wasn’t, to have there be no _expectations_ , whether it’s sex or responsibility of greedy, grabbing hands that want pieces of something that Rodney doesn’t want to share.

Something he has to share.

He’s really not good at sharing.

“Rodney.”

It’s not the words. That’s not a lie. It’s just everything _else._

“It’s time to go to bed, baby,” John whispers, heat and promise wrapped up in something that’s given so freely that it can’t sound wrong. Because it _is_ wrong, almost disturbing if Rodney were to analyze this clinically, detached the way he should be.

He isn’t detached. He can’t be, not with John all around him, and no matter how disturbing it is, how his stomach wants to clench, something in the back of his mind disgusted with all of this.

There's a caress Rodney's never heard before, not towards him, and he wants it. He wants to hear John say it, low and intimate, again and again.

John kisses him, trading lush for sloppy heat that’s all fumbling lips and greedy tongues. “I’ve been thinking about this all day, when we could get back here. I think about it every day, how stupid the rules are that we have to be _entertained_. I’ve got entertainment,” John says, voice suddenly rough as Rodney’s hands close around his ass, pulling him closer. “I’ve got all I want right here, baby,” fingers on his neck, his cheek, damp against his shoulders, “and if it were up to us, we’d never come out of our room. We’d spend the whole day in bed, baby, do whatever you want.”

Rodney’s panting by now, spurred on by something that isn’t quite lust—no matter how he grinds against John like an eager teenager—because John’s words are heavy with promise, sex and affection evenly mixed until Rodney can’t figure out which is which. More importantly, though, is the lack of real expectation here beyond what John wants himself. It’s not for _him_ , not a performance John can abandon at a moments notice.

It’s for them. For whatever they want.

His knees abruptly buckle, leaving him disoriented and wondering when they'd moved closer to the bed. John crawls immediately after him, leaving him flat and gasping as he’s kissed until his head swims. “Baby,” John says, “baby, please.”

Rodney reaches. It’s impossible not to, clinging to John as tightly as he’s being clung to, offering up his own silent _baby’s_ with kisses that sear them both into harsh panting. “Promise me you won’t ever call me that ever again,” he rasps.

“Whatever you say,” John chuckles. “Baby.”


End file.
